December, 1915; Western Front
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Every morning, after the stand to but before the rum ration is passed around, England says that his matches are too damp to strike, and every morning Scotland pretends to believe him, lights two cigarettes, and hands one to his brother.
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(England's fingernails are bitten down to the quick, and the cuticles surrounding the tiny half moons that remain are ragged and bloody.)
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Every morning, they smoke in silence, shoulders pressed together as they lean against the back wall of the trench, feet braced against duckboards if they're lucky, buried in knee deep mud if they're not.
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(The thin strip of sky visible over the parapet is leaden with heavy clouds, looking as though it might perhaps herald snow. This time last year, Wales had kept mentioning that it was nearly Christmas, but then this time last year, they still thought they'd make it home in time.)
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And every morning for the past month, England has said, "He'll be waiting for you, best jump to it."
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(The words are always delivered with a sort of weary resignation which suggests, surprisingly, that the allusion is not a deliberate one.)
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And today, like every other day, Scotland takes his leave from his brother without comment, and heads towards the dugout.
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(No matter the current state of the trench floor, every step takes is harder than the last; heavier, like he's walking through a quagmire and slowly sinking deeper. He continues on, though, because stopping would be even more difficult.)
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The dirt stairway is empty. Even if they had needed a guard past those first few days before this new routine was firmly established, it's doubtful Wales could be persuaded to leave his young Gunner's side long enough to stand it.
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(Alasdair McMillan, who was born twenty-two years ago in Edinburgh; Scotland had sensed that about the lad before he'd even talked to him, and heard the faint burr that twelve years in London and three at Oxford hadn't quite worn away. England thinks he's too young; they have that conversation every day, too, after inspection and chores, whilst the other soldiers write letters to their families and sweethearts back home.)
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When he reaches the blanket covered doorway that leads to the bunkroom, Scotland hesitates like he always hesitates, and lies to himself like he always lies: He could still turn around, he could still walk away. No routine is set in stone, no custom unbreakable.
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(It's still a choice, even if he invariably makes the same one.)
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Unlike most days, however, France is still dressed and perched at the end of the bed furthest from the door. It takes him a moment to acknowledge Scotland's presence, and even then, it's only with the smallest of nods and a thin, anaemic smile.
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(His eyes are a dull, glassy grey, and his hair hangs lank and lifeless against his sunken cheeks. He's still the brightest spot in the room. In any room.)
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Scotland stands in front of him, leaving a careful handsbreadth of space between their bodies. France doesn't move to fill it, but he doesn't seek to widen it, either.
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(His hands are gripped so tightly around his knees that the newly sharp points of his knuckles look as though they're close to piercing through the raw skin covering them. Some of the cracks run so deep that they look like they should have reached down to the bone already.)
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"France," Scotland says, and then finds he has no more idea what to say next when he finishes saying the name as he had when he started it.
It makes France look towards him, though, and his absent gaze slowly sharpens into something more tangible. "You're growing a beard," he says, sounding slightly taken aback, as though Scotland's bristly cheeks are an astonishing new discovery for him.
"I'm getting a beard," Scotland says, rubbing the point of his chin between the pad of his thumb and the flat of his index finger. "Growing makes it sound deliberate."
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(The hair is coarse and prickly, and a far brighter red than that on his head, which looks almost black unless the light hits it from just the right angle. England's own whiskers have revealed themselves to be both patchy and of an even ruddier hue, which goes a long way towards explaining why he has always scrupulously endeavoured to keep his face hairless.)
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France clucks his tongue. "You look unkempt."
As Scotland is splattered with mud from the toes of his boots all the way up to his hairline, and smells like something that's just crawled out of an open sewer, a bit of stubble seems like the least of his worries, or France's. "Aye, but then we're hardly drowning in hot running water here, are we?"
France's nose wrinkles, and he crooks one finger. "Come with me," he says as he slowly gets to his feet.
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(He moves like an old man sometimes now: deliberate and careful, as though his body is a fragile thing that he needs to protect.)
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He leads Scotland to a chair set beside a small table at the other end of the room, bids him sit, and then hands him a damp, somewhat threadbare towel. It's steaming faintly and warm to the touch: a clear and very obvious message.
"Where did you get this?" Scotland asks before draping the towel over his face.
"There's always a little hot water left over after breakfast," France says. "No more than you use every day for your tea ration, I should think."
The fabric holds a faint hint of France's old scent, the one that Scotland had thought was lost completely beneath the caustic stink of smoke and death. It always puts him in mind of the other nation's wines: subtle, but rich and complex. He breathes deeply.
France is holding a badger brush when Scotland uncovers his face a few minutes later, its bristles already coated well coated with lather. Scotland reaches out to take it from him, but France pushes his hand away with the back of his own.
"You never do a thorough job yourself," he says chidingly. "You always miss spots."
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(The last time France had done this was… Scotland doesn't bother to dig through his prodigious memories: he knows France has never done this for him before.)
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France stands behind the chair and presses two fingers against Scotland's forehead, urging him to tip his head further back.
When Scotland is situated to his satisfaction, France smoothes the brush in small circles across his cheeks, along his jaw, and down the line of his throat. The movement is gentler than Scotland would use on himself, almost a caress, even though France's eyebrows are drawn close together, his expression intense.
The soap is not standard issue; it smells faintly of sandalwood, lathers well, and likely won't leave Scotland feeling as though he's been stripped of a layer of skin afterwards.
France's straight razor isn't standard issue, either. The handle is inlaid with mother-of-pearl, the blade polished to a fine mirror finish, and its cutting edge, judging by France's small wince as he runs his thumb along its length, is sharpened to perfection.
He rests the rounded point just below Scotland's jaw, and stretches the skin with the fingers of his other hand.
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(The last time France held a knife to his throat, Scotland was choking on a mouthful of blood, his tongue bitten nearly clean in two from his fall. It had been the first time they'd met on a battlefield since Scotland joined the Union, and France's musket had jammed around the same moment Scotland discovered that he couldn't bring himself to pull the trigger on his own. Despite the many times they clashed subsequently, he never did learn how to shoot him, but he did learn never to turn his back that day. )
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His heart beats slightly faster.
The blade glides quickly and easily, however; smooth across his cheeks, long slow strokes along the length of Scotland's throat, chasing his Adam's apple as it bobs with every nervous swallow, finishing with shorter, more precise ones beneath his nose and bottom lip.
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(France's hands tremble, just a little, not as badly as England's do, but still enough to be noticeable. They've been at the frontline too long, all of them, but France refuses to move to the reserve or even support, and Scotland won't leave without France, Wales doesn't want to abandon his Gunner, and England… None of them will go whilst the others remain, and thus they stay, trapped.)
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France circles around to the front of the chair again, and skims his fingers across Scotland's skin, lightly tracing the path the razor had taken.
He then bends down, palms flat as they frame Scotland's face. "Not as close as I would like," he says, "but I'm out of hot water, so it'll have to do."
Beyond that first day in the dugout (and that first year, centuries ago) they have very seldom shown each other any gentleness. France always seemed to regard it a bad habit that Scotland needed to be trained to overcome, and so whenever he offers it himself, Scotland is not how he should react. As ever, he holds still, fights against his instincts, and waits to take his cue from France.
And he shuts his eyes. He rarely likes what he sees when France submits him to such intimate scrutiny, because, more often than not, it's nothing at all.
"No doubt better than I could manage," he says, voice wavering as his breath shortens.
France chuckles, and he must have leant in even closer, as his breath feathers across Scotland's lips, raising goosebumps to his still-damp skin.
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(This, too, Scotland finds difficult to understand. Usually, if France wants to kiss him, he will just do so. He does not wait for Scotland to make the first move, and any spontaneity has always been strictly on his terms.)
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The muffled sound of gunfire makes the decision for them. France sighs heavily (perhaps sounding slightly disappointed, although Scotland is well aware that's likely just wishful thinking on his part), presses a swift kiss to the side of Scotland's mouth, and then straightens up and away from him.
"Tomorrow, Écosse?" he says like he says every day as he retreats towards the door.
And today, like every other day, Scotland says, "Aye, of course."